


No One Like You

by myownspark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Paris, Art, Art History, Artists, France (Country), Friends to Lovers, Letters, M/M, Painting, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/pseuds/myownspark
Summary: Dear Niall,I was glad to have the chance to talk with you again at the AHA conference. Your idea that the Musee D’Orsay Tomlinson painting is in fact not a self-portrait is an intriguing one, and I may have discovered something that will have a bearing on that theory.Some background: as you may remember, I’ve been researching for a book I’m writing about Harry Styles.  I’ve been in communication with Styles’ last living descendant, who is in possession of a trunk that her family believed to have belonged to Styles himself. It held some personal items she presumes to be his, including two unmounted paintings and a small collection of letters.Upon spending the last few days in Provins studying these items, I believe there to be a connection between Tomlinson and Styles, and I would very much like your opinion.Are you up for a trip to France?Sincerely,Liam PayneWhere Liam and Niall are art historians discovering the truth about two nineteenth century painters on opposite sides of an artistic divide.





	1. The Discovery, 2017

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods at the @1dreversebang, for putting the project together and supporting the artists and writers!
> 
> Thank you so much to @tomlinshires, whose paintings and ideas prompted this work. You are so very talented and kind, I really enjoyed working with you on this project. I am so glad we are friends! 
> 
> And special thanks to my support system. It takes a village! My lovely fandom friends in my chats, One Word Matters and The Squadron, you are lovely, helpful, funny, and always supportive. Thank you so much. Thank you to @hevab, my enthusiastic, thorough, and very picky Britpicker, thank you for wonderful work once again. Thank you @louandhazaf for your insightful last minute help with a tricky beta problem.
> 
> And thank you so much, @gettingaphdinlarry. You were there from the minute I chose the prompt to after midnight on the day of publishing. Your support and friendship means so much to me. I wouldn't and couldn't do this without you. All the cookies for you. xoxo

Liam’s palms are sweating even though it’s cool in the little archive room of the Provins Village Library.

He wishes he could have a strong cup of coffee to settle his nerves, but no food or drink is allowed due to the historic documents housed here, not to mention the precious letters and paintings that were just entrusted to his care days ago.

Back in January when his research money came through, he never could have imagined this turn of events. Harry Styles’ only known living descendant was dismissive the first time he contacted her, but polite enough to tell him she would keep his number in case she changed her mind. Six months, a flurry of phone calls and two face-to-face meetings later here he sits, still trying to fully grasp what he has discovered.

He was up most of the previous night trying to figure out what to do, but this morning in the shower he came up with a plan, then rushed from his hotel with his hair still damp to the library as soon as they’d opened. He worked and reworked the email to Niall Horan for the better part of the last hour; now all that’s left to do is send it, and hope Niall will agree to help.

Liam reads it over one more time, drying his hands on his thighs. He takes one last deep breath and pushes “send.”

 

July 15, 2017

To: niall.horan@ucd.ie  
From: liam.payne@gold.ac.uk  
Subject: Styles discovery – opportunity

Niall,

Was glad to have had a chance to talk with you again at the AHA conference. As we discussed after our panel, I appreciated the themes you introduced about the changing political climate of Paris in the 1820s and its effect on patronage of the arts in the Neoclassical period.

Were you able to find the primary source you were looking for regarding the Musée D’Orsay Tomlinson portrait? Your theory that it is not a self-portrait is an interesting one, and the points you brought up about the nature of the changing economic structure in France and the connection with Tomlinson’s choice of clothing are compelling. I wonder if I might have discovered something that may have a bearing on your theory.

Are you up for a trip to France?

Some background – as you may remember I’ve been researching for a book I’m writing about Harry Styles. I’ve been in communication with Styles’ last living descendant, a great-great-great-(great?) grandniece, who is in possession of a trunk that her family believed to have belonged to Styles himself. It held some personal items she presumes to be his, including two unmounted paintings and a small collection of letters.

Upon spending the last few days in Provins studying these items, I have reason to believe there may be a connection between Styles and Tomlinson, and I would very much appreciate your opinion.

Attached is a partial photo of the first letter. I believe it is authentic, based upon the type of paper and degree of wear. As you can see, the signature bears a resemblance to Tomlinson’s.

I plan to be in Provins until at least the 22nd. I hope you will consider making the trip. If you’d like, call or text me, 078149425.

Sincerely,

Liam Payne  
Department of Visual Cultures  
Goldsmiths University, London

◊ ◊ ◊

July 18, 2017

Liam reaches for the volume button to turn down the French voice on his GPS, now that they’ve made it out of Paris. He likes to immerse himself in the language when he’s here in France, to warm up and test himself. This strategy has only gotten him lost once, when it took him six kilometres to realize he’d turned _gauche_ when he should have turned _droite_ , and he’d ended up on the road to Sezanne instead of Provins.

But that was two falls ago; he and the disembodied voice he’s fondly nicknamed Gaston are getting along famously this time, and the long straight road taking him and Niall into the countryside seems full of possibility. Even driving on the wrong side of the road feels comfortable, with green summer fields spread out on each side of the highway and the medieval fortress tower of Provins visible in the distance. It marks the central tourist attraction for the little town where Liam has spent the last few weeks doing research for his next book, about the life and work of Harry Styles, painter of the Romantic style, who was born in Provins at the turn of the nineteenth century.

Niall’s been travelling for the better part of the day, and it shows; he looks rumpled and tired, and his hair’s got the telltale look of someone who fell asleep with their head against an airplane window. But he’s animated enough, interrogating Liam about the details of his find.

“Jesus, man, what the hell, I still can’t believe she just … handed the stuff over to you?” Niall stares intently at Liam instead of enjoying the view of the French countryside.

It’s the same conversation they’d had on the phone two days ago after Niall received Liam’s email. Styles’ descendant Mireille had met with Liam last Friday at her home in Provins. To Liam’s surprise she presented Styles’ trunk, explaining that she appreciated Liam’s esteem for her great-great-great uncle, and perhaps the contents would be helpful for his book. She hadn’t a clue who the letters were from, but she had no use for them; she had told him to keep the paintings and letters as long as he needed them, asking only that he take good care of them and report back his findings.

Liam wouldn’t have believed it himself, but here they are, the five letters and two paintings waiting for them in the archive room under lock and key. Sure, they could be nothing, Liam supposes; hell, they could be fakes, done up by a grifter for fame or money. But Mireille had wanted nothing of the sort. She seemed content with Liam’s promises to be careful with them, and he left with her wish of good luck and a polite kiss to both his cheeks. It’s astounding, honestly; how often does a discovery like this come to light in the art world, when every stone’s been turned over, every lead already followed?

“I’ve gotta tell you, Liam, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but … the chances of these things being legit … it’s …” Niall shakes his head.

“I know, I know. So you’ve said. But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“The picture you sent, it’s convincing, I’ll give you that.” Niall’s face is thoughtful, and he turns to look out the window for a moment, seeming to mull it over. “But honestly. Scholars have been working on Tomlinson for _decades._ There isn’t anything left to find.”

“Maybe not on his end,” Liam counters. “But you have to admit, if these are real, everyone’s going to have to reevaluate what they think they know about Styles and Tomlinson.”

Niall is clearly unconvinced, and turns again to the window, signalling that there is no sense in pursuing such a claim. “We’ve been over this. They were on opposite sides of the profession. Tomlinson was a Neoclassicist. He played the game, bigger than life. He was … a _star_. He was the critics’ darling, won the Prix de Rome, taught at the Académie _._ He painted murals on ceilings, for fuck’s sake, when he was in his _twenties._ Styles was …”

“A Romantic,” Liam says. That one word seems to explain it all.

“Yes, a Romantic. Totally different spheres. Oil and water.”

Of course he can’t blame Niall for being sceptical; Liam’s colleagues have questioned for years why he’s spent his academic time and energy on Styles. It’s not as if Styles is a household name, like a Eugène Delacroix or J.M.W. Turner or a Louis Tomlinson. But Liam has to wonder why his contemporaries _wouldn’t_ want to study him, when the sketchy pieces of his story come together to paint such an enigmatic picture.

It began in Provins in 1815, when Styles was discovered by a rich Parisian tourist as he wandered through the sacristy at Saint Quiriace and was mesmerized by the teenager painting the crucified Christ on the altarpiece. The powers-that-be determined Styles was a prodigy and he was whisked off to Paris and given the opportunity to apply at the Académie des Beaux-Arts. There he rose quickly to the top of his class before his schooling was inexplicably cut short, the records showing he didn’t return for his final year.

Works created in the decades after his departure from the Académie show he clearly possessed the talent and technical ability of his more successful contemporaries. But there is something about Styles’ work that sets him apart from the other relative unknowns of the time period that piques Liam’s curiosity. While so many of Styles’ colleagues embraced the sharp, stage-like formality of Neoclassicism, Styles pushed the boundaries of a new approach that looks casual, almost spontaneous on the canvas. There is a certain ease and beauty to it, more of an instinctual style than an academic one. In a sea of the more well-known, popular paintings of the time that tackle classic themes of history, mythology and religion, Styles’ are personal and introspective, celebrating the beauty and intimacy of the every day. It was Styles and artists like him, Liam believes, who opened the door to the next great artistic wave, so those who would be considered the first “modern” artists, Monet and the Impressionists, could walk right through.

“Look, I get it, Styles never won a juried prize or a grand commission like Tomlinson did. Understood. So sure, maybe they didn’t run in the same circles. But they went to school together at the Académie. They both showed at the Salon year after year. Why couldn’t there have been letters between them?”

“Liam, come on. They weren’t in the same league. The Salon showed hundreds of artists each year. Tomlinson’s work was consistently praised. Styles’ was … unappreciated. Unfairly so, of course. But.”

“He had a following of his own, Niall. A few fellow artists, certain savvy critics… they saw something in him.” But he was never able to break through the rigid, traditional tastes of his time, so remained on the periphery of art history circles for almost two hundred years. Until now, Liam hopes.

“They did. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good artist. He clearly was. He had a perfectly respectable career outside of the Paris art machine. Enviable, actually. I just think you might be grasping at straws here.”

“They knew each other. Well.” The content of the Tomlinson letters, as Liam has come to refer to them, makes that abundantly clear.

“If the letters are real.”

Liam sighs deeply. “They’re real. I wouldn’t have dragged you all the way from Dublin if I had any doubt.”

“And you think these items may have bearing on the D’Orsay portrait?”

It’s the portrait Niall has been trying to find correct attribution for, the portrait that was long thought by scholars to be a self-portrait, done by Tomlinson as a statement on the changing political and economic value of art and artists in post-Napoleonic France. It was assumed to be the reason for his sombre expression, to drive home his dissatisfaction with the politicisation of public art. His choice of dress, specifically an elegant coat and posh silk waistcoat over an obviously worn and stained shirt, would also fit this premise. But Niall has theorised the portrait wasn’t done by Tomlinson at all, due to inconsistencies in brushwork as compared to his other paintings.

They’ve already had this conversation too, and Niall knows where Liam stands on it. “Yes. I do.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Niall says, not unkindly, and turns to the window again.

Provins is close now, visible just ahead, with its distinctive fortress tower poking up among the trees. Liam considers giving Niall a bit of history about the castle and the vast network of tunnels underneath that stored wine casks and weapons. Or he could tell Niall about the church at Saint Quiriace that houses Styles’ three most famous works, the _Virgin and Child_ , _Crucifixion_ , and _Ascension._

But Niall surprises him, evidently not ready to change the subject just yet.

“You said there are two paintings, yeah?” he asks, rubbing the sparse whiskers on his chin thoughtfully.

“Right.”

“And you won’t tell me any more?”

“No, not yet,” Liam says, noting with a glimmer of satisfaction that Niall’s curiosity might win out over his doubt. “You need to see them for yourself. If they’re fakes, at least you’ll get a few good meals out of it. The restaurants here are outstanding.”

“On you, of course.” Niall looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, of course. On me.”

Gaston’s quiet voice instructs them to take the exit on the right to Provins city center. Liam flips on his indicator and his heart speeds up. It won’t be long now.

◊ ◊ ◊

The library foyer is quiet. The librarian gives them a nod over her glasses as Liam and Niall sign in and retrieve the key to the archive room. They stride away quickly toward the stairs in silence.

When they arrive at the door at the end of the hall, Liam slips the key into the lock and flips on the light. One side of the room is lined with windows, and there is a large, locked banker’s box in the centre of the table, along with a few open coffee table books marked with notes, a few pairs of white cotton gloves, a magnifying loupe and two flexible neck lamps plugged in with extension cords.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Liam says, pointing to the nearest chair.

Niall puts his messenger bag down on it. “I’d rather stand, thanks. This probably won’t take long.”

Liam nods, biting his tongue.

“Been sitting all day anyway,” Niall backtracks, stretching his legs as if he’s stiff.

“Well. Let’s get to it then.”

Liam turns the dial on the padlock that secures the banker’s box. It slides open with a metallic click, and he lifts the lid. After putting on gloves, he reaches in with both hands and retrieves the first painting. He works slowly and gently, taking care not to rush, even in his eagerness. He has tried not to handle them much since he received them; they have been rolled up for so long that they still don’t want to lay flat. But Liam coaxes them gently as Niall stands looking over his shoulder.

Once they are both displayed, Liam takes a step back to let Niall get close, but never takes his eyes off the paintings. They are so new to him, yet now as familiar as works of art he has studied for years. His heart skips when he realises, again, that he, and now Niall, are the only people to see these works since—

“Liam.”

“Yeah,” he answers, not looking up.

There is nothing for a few beats. Then Liam can hear Niall swallow.

“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

Liam takes a breath. “That depends.”

Niall speaks slowly, deliberately, as if he doesn’t quite believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “Well that, right there, is a very old, very … good painting. Of a man. Standing at the foot of that castle tower we just drove by.”

“Yes. It is.” Liam waits, heart thudding. It’s taking everything he’s got to stay calm and not blurt out everything he knows.

“It’s … really … something.” Niall’s voice, so indifferent a few moments ago, now skips with something new. “Look at the light, and the … delicate treatment of the … clouds.”

Those are the first things Liam had noticed too, as well as the almost impressionistic use of colour; there is a hint of purple in the stone wall, pink in the darkening sky. Although these make up the bulk of the piece, it is the man, his back to the viewer, who is the main focus. His dark hair, black trousers and simple white work shirt are rendered in just few loose brushstrokes. He is dwarfed by the stone walls but seems protected by them, too. He is everyman, out in the world, alone. Liam has come to feel for this man over the last few days.

It is clearly Styles’ piece; Liam would bet his savings on it, though it has no signature.

“And that.” Niall pauses. “Is … a nude portrait of … who?”

“It appears to be Harry Styles,” Liam says, turning to the other painting. “The features match, at least.”

“Holy shit.”

Liam nods and crosses his arms. “Correct.”

“Christ, Liam.” Niall steps past him to approach the painting slowly, reverently, as a pilgrim would approach the altar at Santiago. He crouches down so the painting is at eye level. Liam watches Niall take it all in, from the exposed edges of the canvas to the muted, dusty pigments and the face of Styles himself, all of it compellingly beautiful even under the stark fluorescent light. His eyes stop on the mysterious markings on Styles’ arm, and his eyebrows crease.

The nude draws the viewer in, not only for its rich colour and sinuous line, but for its emotional immediacy. Styles, though posed like Ingres’ Grand Odalisque, isn’t nude in the way grand odalisques are, coy and distant. Or nude the way Boticelli’s Venus is, a confection springing perfectly from the ocean at her birth, presenting herself to the viewer to be consumed. Styles isn’t so much nude as he is _naked_. Stripped of clothing. Stripped of everything that should cover or hide him. He is vulnerable, but gazes out from the canvas over his shoulder as if he’s challenging the viewer, daring him to look.

“Jesus, I need a drink.”

“What, now?” Liam asks, watching Niall stand again. “We just got here.”

“Fuck, no, not now, I’m not leaving until I look at the rest of this stuff! But _Jesus_ , mate.” Niall reaches out a finger, barely touching the edge of the portrait’s canvas, the crumbling gesso visible on the fraying weave of fabric.

“Clearly early nineteenth century,” Niall says. “Anything on the back?”

“Nothing on either one.”

“’Course not.” Niall puts his hands on his hips. “Well, we don’t need signatures to know these weren’t painted by the same person.”

Liam sways on his feet a little, barely resisting the urge to pump his fist. “Exactly. The use of colour here is quite bold, and the brushstrokes are broad and free,” Liam says, tapping the table near the tower picture. “This is so much more careful and controlled, it’s almost … restrained. I agree, they are by two different artists.” But it’s more than that. It’s a quality that is hard to pin down, that Liam can best describe as a different way of seeing, a different way of approaching the canvas. The paintings show the work of a different eye as well as a different hand.

“Both excellent, though,” Niall says, leaning down again, tilting his head so he can see the texture of the work. They are silent as he squints and focuses.

The paintings are excellent, even with the fading, cracking, and discolouration that is expected due to neglect and age. The pieces are honest and real, and although they have been tucked away for generations, and their creators long since passed away, Liam can’t help but feel like an intruder, as if he is eavesdropping on private moments that have been laid bare in the daylight.

“Oh my God.” Niall raises his hands to his mouth and stands there, gaping. It looks as if the blood is draining from his face.

“What?”

Niall looks at Liam for a moment, then back down to the table. He seems to gather himself and dismiss whatever he was thinking. “Uh, nothing, I mean, nothing for sure, yet. But please, tell me there’s something in those letters that explains this.”

Liam lifts Niall’s messenger bag off the chair. “Have a seat.”


	2. The Divide, 1816

_27 June, 1816_

_Dear Harry,_

_You have been gone only two days and I find this city, this studio, this house insufferable without you._

_It is my favourite thing, you know, when we sit side by side in the studio. I tried to paint today and it is not the same, by myself._

_I fear that what my father said that night at dinner cut you too deeply. Please don’t be bothered for one more moment about it. He knows of your talent, he has told me so. That is what he does, he pushes, like throwing down a gauntlet. He only challenges you because he knows you can become a great artist. He does the same to me. We can be great, Harry, can’t we?_

_All this to say, I do hope you will come back after the holiday. I think that perhaps you won’t, because of the way you said goodbye. It felt as if you would never see us again. I am not right about that, am I?_

_We have so much more to learn. We shall put our own thoughts and wishes and imaginings aside, and copy the masters. Isn’t that the way of it? Michelangelo began by copying Giotto, and Rubens copied Leonardo … this is what all the great artists have done. We will learn it all from them, the sciences of geometry and anatomy, the manner of composition and design, and finally, the means to use colour. We will learn to fool the eye and make our brushstrokes disappear. That is how we will refine our work, and how we will take Paris by the tail when we are older. Can you not see it, Harry, you and I at the Salon? We will be admired, and our works will be talked about for years after. It will be grand._

_Please write and tell me you will not stay away long. Paris misses you. Mother does, and Father too. And of course Mimi does. And I do._

_The holiday will be too long without you._

_Yours,_

_Louis_

◊ ◊ ◊

The Tomlinsons’ housecat, Mimi, sits on the sideboard just behind Madame Tomlinson. She licks her paw delicately, having just finished her cream; she is fine-boned and pretty with her shiny white coat and blue silk ribbon collar that holds her bell. To Harry, she seems almost a different species completely than the toms at the farm who prowl for mice in the barns with their torn ears and runny eyes.

Harry looks into his soup bowl of thin chicken broth and dumplings, wishing it were his mum’s chard and potato stew.

He subtly tries to pull the cuff of his sleeve over his wrist again. It keeps riding up, too short because of this latest growth spurt that has him outgrowing his trousers and bursting out of his shoes. It’s embarrassing, sitting at the Tomlinson’s fancy dining table in clothes that are too small, and he finds himself wanting to hide his hands in his lap.

“Have you heard from your mother, Harry, as to whether she will come next week for the ceremony?”

The Académie des Beaux Arts’ graduation ceremony is the night students and instructors have been working toward all year, where the senior architects’ and painters’ final works will be judged and the sought-after awards presented.

“No, she’s really quite busy on the farm. But she very much appreciates the invitation. I’ll be hiring a carriage to go home on my own.” His mother had sent the money weeks ago, and it’s under Harry’s pillow in a handkerchief. The break from school will be two months, and Harry is torn, at once dreading his last day in Paris but also yearning to be on his way home.

Louis’ mother clucks at him. “What a shame, dear. I’m sure she could use some time away from the country.”

Madame Tomlinson means well. She is nothing if not attentive and kind. But Harry can just picture his mother sitting here at the table with them, her calloused hands dwarfing these delicate china teacups. She wouldn’t know what to do in the city. She’d be claustrophobic and complaining of the tight quarters, even in this spacious, three-storey house, because its sides press up against its neighbours so it can’t breathe.

“Mother, Harry’s just said, his mum is—” Louis begins.

But Harry interrupts, his voice rising over Louis. “Yes, she would like it here, thank you. She’ll come for graduation next year, I’m sure of it. ” It’s a little white lie, but Harry gets the feeling that it’s the right thing to say. He’s getting used to that now, that sometimes there is a difference between what the truth is and what people want to hear.

“Yes, next year it will be our turn,” Louis says confidently, lifting his wine glass as if to make a toast. “The Prix de Rome. Can you imagine, Harry? Winning it?”

Louis’ eyes are blue and gleaming, and it is enough to carry Harry along into the dream. For a moment Harry can see the two of them standing before the jury of instructors, bowing their heads to receive their medals to a standing ovation of the entire Académie; they hug, and there are congratulations on every side, young men and old pushing and shoving to shake their hands, clapping them on the back, showering them with applause.

The picture glows, and Harry lets himself bask in it; but it is Louis who shall win, of course, and Harry says so.

“Psshh, nonsense.” Louis shakes his head, but there is hope in his smile.

“Boys.” A low voice carries across the table. “I wouldn’t want you getting ahead of yourselves.”

For that short, glittering moment Harry had forgotten about Louis’ father.

As head instructor of painting at the studio school of the Académie, Monsieur William Tomlinson has not only a personal interest in Louis, but also a professional one. He himself was winner of the Prix de Rome. He has been an exhibitor at the Salon for almost two decades, and just won the commission for the chapel at Saint-Roch; he is a man who has attained a reputation so storied and rich that students joke that there is an entire gallery hall named after him in the Louvre. Although Harry has been boarding in the Tomlinsons’ home for ten months, Harry still feels like a stranger here sometimes, especially when Monsieur Tomlinson is in the room.

His cold blue eyes have a way of drilling down into whatever they look at, and Harry is no exception. He is instantly snapped back into place at the table, the imaginary celebration shut away as if a door has slammed on it.

Likewise, Louis has gone silent.

“Do you expect you will be the favourites?” Monsieur Tomlinson asks.

Louis’ face that just seconds ago was smiling radiantly now glares at his wine glass as if it has offended him somehow; to Harry he is no longer the champion, the award winner sipping champagne. He is once again just a junior student, like Harry, all dreams and high hopes but still wet behind the ears. Even if he is his father’s son.

“Uh, no, um …” Louis stammers.

Harry catches a flicker of irritation on Madame Tomlinson’s face, but she says nothing, just dabs her pursed lips with her lace napkin.

Monsieur Tomlinson takes a sip of his soup. “I rather think Hesse is the frontrunner of your class, wouldn’t you agree? Or perhaps Vinchon? He is showing remarkable potential.”

Harry’s arms feel tingly suddenly, and he feels his face burn. Hesse? Never. And even with a handkerchief tied across his eyes, Louis can draw circles around Vinchon.

Harry feels all the faces at the table turn toward him as his words come out, his voice not even sounding like himself. “Perhaps they do have potential, but Louis is going to win.”

Monsieur Tomlinson’s bald head is like the clean shell of an egg, keeping all of its secrets and scores inside. “Hmm. Quite an interesting prediction. And what makes you so sure of this?”

Harry looks at Louis, who ducks his head as if he’d like to disappear. “Louis is the first one to arrive to the studio in the morning, and he is the last one to leave,” he begins.

“Students do not win awards for punctuality,” comes Monsieur Tomlinson’s reply.

Shit, of course not, Harry thinks. Louis shifts in his seat.

“I just meant he loves nothing more than to draw,” Harry continues, undaunted. “He’s gifted, it’s effortless, really, how he can render something beautiful. Portraits, still life, landscape…” Harry shakes his head and shrugs, because it’s genuinely remarkable. “His eye for perspective, and line, and anatomy, it just … runs in his blood, I guess. It comes easy to him.”

Now Monsieur Tomlinson has grown bored; he seems to be paying more attention to his soup than the case Harry is making. The toe of Louis’ shoe presses against Harry’s foot, perhaps in an effort to stop him, but Harry goes on. He’s got so much to say, about Louis’ talent, his eye, and of course, his persistence.

“And he thinks about his work, all the time. Wakes up thinking about it, goes to sleep dreaming about it. He’s always thinking about how to create it, how to make it better, so that the person who views it will _feel_ something.”

“Harry …” Louis says, but Harry isn’t able to stop, as if a cork has been popped and the contents of the bottle explode, finally free.

“Just the other day he showed me his sketchbook, and you should see the facial expression studies he’s done. Not copied, but his own. He’s been working on them, outside of the studio, for weeks. Fascinating, truly. I’ve never seen faces like his, where they capture anger, sadness, jealousy. Fear. Divine ecstasy. He’s poured his own heart into every piece. None of the other students can do that. None.”

Monsieur Tomlinson finally looks up.

“And what about yourself?”

“Excuse me?” Harry is still catching his breath after the rush of words, and the question catches him off guard.

“You’ve told me quite a lot about my son. What are your chances of winning the Prix de Rome?”

Harry suddenly feels the pinch in his tight shoes and the stretch of cotton snug across his shoulders. “None,” Harry says truthfully. “I’m not … like him.”

“No, you aren’t,” Monsieur Tomlinson agrees, then swallows the last spoonful of his soup. He pushes the bowl away forcefully, as if to put a cap on his point. Harry’s eyes hook to Louis’, where nothing of their blue shine remains. They are dull like dirty silver coins.

“I think you both have a lot of work to do. Why? Because art is a tool. Painting. Sculpture. Architecture. Its purpose is to communicate a message. To people who cannot read. Who are not educated. The masses need to be taught, and artists are charged with that task. The paintings in the basilicas, the nativities and the crucifixions, what do you think they are for, hmm? For entertainment? So the penitents can sit and admire their beauty?”

Harry has heard this speech at the Académie from a dozen different instructors in a dozen different ways, but Monsieur Tomlinson’s tone makes it clear he expects no answer from him.

“No. They are a _message_. The sculptures at the courthouse and at the palace, of Liberty, with her flame and spear, or Justice, with her sword and scales. It is not simply about _beauty_. It is not about _expression_. Or _heart_.” Those words sound weak when Monsieur Tomlinson says them, and Harry can feel Louis stiffen. “They tell a story with symbols instead of words. That is why artists, excellent artists, are trained the way they are. That is the purpose of competition. We have a responsibility to shape the thoughts and behaviours of the masses. This is a war, boys. A war for the souls of men. Do you see?”

“Yes, Father.” Louis’ voice is soft but certain.

“Yes, Monsieur Tomlinson,” Harry echoes.

“Excellent. A bit more important than showing up on time, isn’t it?”

The boys agree again, in unison this time, but Monsieur Tomlinson is already rising from the table. “I have correspondence to tend to. Louis, bring your book to my study in one hour. I’ll tell you if what’s inside is as special as Harry thinks it is.”

With that he is gone, the tension in the room loosening as his footsteps grow distant down the hall. Harry has lost his appetite, and he pushes his bowl away too. He never should have mentioned the sketchbook. Harry is about to apologise to Louis when Madame Tomlinson interrupts him, reaching over to touch the fabric of his sleeve.

“You’re growing so fast, dear. How I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud.” She pats his arm, her smile warm. “Tomorrow morning, before you are off to school, let’s take your measurements, shall we? And I’ll take them to the tailor’s? We’ll order you a fine new shirt for the ceremonies next week.”

The surprise burn of tears stings Harry’s eyes. “Oh, no, Madame, please. You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I want to, darling. Lace sleeves and a ruffled collar. A little long to give you some more room to grow, hmm? How would that be?”

Harry turns to Louis, who gives him a smile. Their knees press against each other under the table, and it makes Harry able to answer her.

“All right,” Harry manages, blinking to hide his tears. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear. A handsome shirt fit for the artist you will be.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Hours later, Louis snuffs out the oil lamp and slides into Harry’s bed, pulling the thin quilt up to their waists. Harry’s chest is bare, since he no longer has a nightshirt that fits, and the soft cotton of Louis’ loose sleeve feels good against his skin where it rests.

At first the reason they shared a bed was homesickness. When Harry arrived from Provins, the city noises frightened him. It was so different than the farm, where the only sounds were the drone of insects and the hoot of a faraway owl. The city never quieted, even at night; there would always be the rumble of a carriage below, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and voices, sometimes talking, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting. Harry was afraid of Paris, so big and loud, and it seemed Louis could tell, when he came from his own room to say goodnight. He stepped through Harry’s door and shut it quietly, and they spoke in tentative whispers; with Louis nearby the noises seemed softer, and Harry began to miss the farm less and less.

Then weeks away from home became months, the night sounds and Louis’ whispering voice became lullabies that soothed Harry to sleep, and the reason became something else.

Love, Harry thinks it might be, though he’s not sure, since he’s never felt it before.

Is it love when you want nothing more than the boy to look at you? Is it love when you don’t want to move in the night because you like the way his thigh feels against yours and you are afraid if he wakes he will pull away? Is it love when the boy compliments your work and you quite nearly swoon because that was all you were hoping for, all you could imagine every minute you worked on it? Is it love when the boy kisses you, on the mouth sometimes, and curls around you so his face tucks into your shoulder?

And if it is love, what might happen when you tell that boy a very important secret?

Louis’ hair looks almost blond with a scant streak of moonlight shining on it, and his teeth gleam in the darkness.

“I’m really sorry for mentioning your sketchbook,” Harry whispers, squeezing Louis’ hand. He still feels awful about it; Louis was in Monsieur Tomlinson’s study for almost an hour tonight, so was late getting ready for bed.

Louis kisses him on the side of his forehead, and speaks softly, Harry’s favourite of Louis’ voices. “It’s alright, I should have shown it to him straightaway. No harm done.”

“What did he say about it?”

Louis unlaces their fingers with a sigh. “Let’s see. One,” he says, pinching Harry’s index finger, “I evidently need another six weeks of anatomy. Two,” he grasps Harry’s middle finger, “darker shadows, lighter highlights, and three,” Louis moves on to Harry’s ring finger, “he wants five new sketches by Tuesday.”

“Well, shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Louis entwines their fingers once more, and pulls Harry’s hand up to his lips to kiss it. “But tell me something.”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you think you can’t win the Prix de Rome?”

“Ugh, don’t ask me that. Let’s just go to sleep.”

“No, no. I will ask. Because I think you can.”

“Louis, it comes … naturally to you. You don’t even have to try. You’re just … brilliant at it. All of it. Perspective, proportion, geometry, anatomy … ”

Louis makes a funny snorting sound. “Some would disagree with you.”

“Yes, anatomy. And design and drafting and each one of the other courses we’ve taken. You sail through, Louis. You could get up from this bed and walk to the studio right now and win all three trials. You were born to do this, and you’re ready. You’ll win.”

“Stop talking about me. What about you? You’ve been right there beside me, neck to neck.”

“I have to work ten times harder than you do. Three, four, five tries to get the draft right, to make it what they want, and … shit, I don’t even know what they want most of the time.”

“So, you’re learning. We all are. Do you think you’re the only one who has to do drafts over and over? Hell, fucking Hesse—

“Shhh, stop shouting,” Harry warns.

Louis brings his voice down to a whisper again. “Fucking Hesse sketched the fucking _Allegory of fucking Virtue_ what, seven times before they let him pass? Think about it. No one has lines like yours. No one has _shadows_ like yours. Dammit Harry, they knew you’d be brilliant. Someone found you out there in the country and brought you here, thank God. And here you are, making everyone else in school look like six year olds scribbling on slate boards.”

“Louis, I …”

“What? I’m right. You know I am.”

Harry sighs deeply, gathering up his nerve.

“Harry? What’s wrong?”

The dim room cloaks them, and Harry is grateful for it. He wouldn’t be able to say what he needs to in the daylight. He has tried, every day for a week at least, but always Louis is there with his excitement, his drive, enough passion for both of them. But the dinner conversation tonight felt heavy in a way it never has before, suffocating, and Harry can’t push the truth away any longer.

“I don’t want to go to Rome.”

“Well of course you do,” Louis chuckles. “We all do. That’s the prize. Rome, for three years. You wouldn’t… be here if you … didn’t…” Louis shifts up and away from him, and Harry’s skin is shocked with cold. It is a long moment before Louis speaks again. “Do you want this, Harry?”

Harry thought he wanted this. The city, the studio, a respected place to study among renowned instructors. The education of a lifetime. Charcoal and pencils. Paint, brushes, canvas. But that was before he knew about the rest. The weight of what is expected. The fact that he is supposed to be painting so that people can learn things, not feel things.

He thinks of his mother back home in Provins. Tomorrow morning she will gather eggs and churn butter to feed the farmhands, then fill a basket with cheese and walk the quiet road to town.

Then he thinks of Madame Tomlinson, patting his arm, making plans to be sure Harry will have clothes to wear at the Beaux Arts graduation ceremony. Tomorrow morning she will measure him around his neck, shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to palm, around his chest, and neck to waist. She will give his measurements to the tailor, who will sew a shirt for him to wear, and it will be like a costume that will make him fit in in that world, move freely among those who will fight in a war Harry doesn’t want any part of.

The thought hurts so much that Harry has to sit up, folding in on himself, afraid he’ll be sick. Tears spring to his eyes, and he gasps a hiccupping breath.

“I … I don’t think I do.”

The tears fall for real now, his secret out. Harry clutches at his stomach and groans, crying as softly as he can, as to not draw the attention of the Tomlinsons down the hall. He waits for Louis to say something, but he almost doesn’t want him to, because honestly, what will he say? Harry hides his face with one hand, so glad for the darkness, so he won’t have to see Louis’ sparkling eyes turn cold and flat again.

He wants to crawl into the voice that is his favourite, saying “Shhh, it’s alright.” And then Louis’ warm hand is on his neck, and he’s wrapped up in the soft fabric that smells of Louis, letting his head fall onto Louis’ shoulder, tears dampening his sleep shirt.

“It’s all right, don’t cry, please, Harry. It’s going to be all right.”


	3. The Visitor, 1821

Liam opens the second letter gingerly and lays it on the table between them. Louis’ writing looks different here, hurried, the stems and loops hard and choppy instead of flowing and relaxed.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Liam asks. He watches Niall melt down a bit, awestruck, as if he’s in the presence of a long-buried gem.

“Just still getting used to … that’s Tomlinson’s signature, just like the last one.” Niall picks up the letter carefully with a white cotton gloved hand. He examines the writing closely, tilting the letter sideways and feeling the thickness of the paper between his fingers. Satisfied, he reads the French out loud, then gives Liam a confused look.

To be sure they are on the same page, Liam recites a translation of the words he has all but memorised.

_3 June, 1821_

_Dear Harry,_

_I would like to come to the farm._

_Please write and tell me I should come._

_I must be gone from here. It is close and hot in the city, and the people weigh on me._

_Please, tell your mother I will be no bother. I need nothing special. I shall feed chickens or hoe weeds, anything she’d like._

_May I come right away?_

_Please write quickly, and I shall come._

_Yours,_

_Louis_

 

“What do you make of it?”

“What do I make of it?” Niall asks incredulously. “This is … proof, right here, that …” he shakes his head. “Tomlinson and Styles were on good terms. These rivals were… _friends_?”

“Apparently.” Liam holds off telling Niall the rest, wanting him to discover the story as he did, piece by piece.

Niall rocks back in his chair and takes a deep breath, tilting his face toward the ceiling. “Right,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “June, 1821 … Tomlinson was …” Niall closes his eyes. “… He’d been back from Rome for about a year by then. Just finished _Pygmalion and Aphrodite_. He most likely would have been assisting his father on the _Allegory of the Four Elements_ for the opera house… and possibly drafting sketches for _Salome._ And of course he was working closely with the studio school at Beaux Arts.”

Liam looks down at the letter, confused. It differs so much from the first one, where the page was practically bursting with dreams and heart. This one is just a stark set of lines, each no more than a handful of words. And of those few words, three are the word “please.”

“So any idea of what could have been the issue here? What would have Tomlinson practically fleeing Paris?”

Niall shrugs, looking down at the letter again as if to plead that it begin speaking. “He was busy at the time. Well connected, well respected professionally. All eyes were on him. But he wanted … to get out?”

“At least temporarily.” Liam pinches his lip. “Could he have been in some sort of trouble? Debts? Or, relationship problems?”

“No, I’ve never seen any evidence of shady business dealings. Everything above board, that I know of. His father may have been an arrogant ass but he ran a tight ship. No tolerance for any of that.” Niall crosses his arms. “And no, no relationship. You know Tomlinson’s reputation. He was too cold. Married to his work until he died.” He shrugs, at a loss.

“Well, I have a theory.” Liam sighs, tiptoeing around what he knows, something he wouldn’t have believed three days ago. “Could it be he wasn’t running away from something in Paris, so much as running toward something in Provins?”

◊ ◊ ◊

Harry hears footsteps. He looks up from his canvas to see Louis standing in the wide doorway of the old carriage house, a piece of buttered bread in one hand and one of their best china cups in the other.

He looks rumpled and unshaven, and his hair kicks out in strange directions. He had arrived late last night, unannounced, and only stayed awake long enough to let Harry’s mother feed him some bread and roasted potatoes left from supper. He’d practically crawled upstairs to Gemma’s old room, and Harry hadn’t heard a peep from him for almost fourteen hours. From all appearances it seems he has slept in his clothes.

Louis is a sight indeed. But quite welcome to Harry’s eyes.

He steps out from behind his easel, putting his brush down and wiping his hands. The portrait he is working on will wait.

“You need a bath,” Harry says by way of greeting.

“Yes, I suppose I do.” Louis’ voice is sheepish, and scratchy from his long sleep.

“Still surprised to see you,” Harry smiles, letting a tinge of exhilaration creep into his voice. “Such a long trip.”

Louis looks down into his cup. “I’m sorry about that. I sent you a letter, but I just …” He sighs and shakes his head. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“I know, you said. It’s all right. I’m glad you came. Visitors are few and far between. Especially famous painters all the way from Paris.”

That makes Louis roll his eyes a bit. “Your mother insisted on making me coffee. She must think I’m some sort of spoiled city brat. And here I didn’t even wash my face before I came downstairs. Proved her right, didn’t I?” Louis chuckles ruefully, looking down at the flattened ruffles of his dress shirt. He sighs softly and eats the last of his bread.

“She doesn’t think that.” It is unseemly, though, and worrisome, because it is so unusual for Louis who has always looked crisply shined and pressed, even on working days in the studio. “Don’t wake him,” Harry’s mother had commanded sternly this morning as they pulled on their work boots for morning chores. “I won’t,” Harry had said. But the worry they both felt that began last night when Louis sat bleary-eyed and silent at the kitchen table had hovered between them, unspoken.

Now with this dishevelled, weary Louis standing before him, it’s clear their suspicions were right. Something in Paris broke him, and he is here to be put right.

“Does … does your father know you’re here?”

Louis spins and spits out his answer. “He can tell me what to do a lot of the time, Harry. But that’s my horse. I bought that horse with my own money.”

“All right,” Harry says softly, taking a step backward.

Louis’ voice gets louder, all the softness gone. “I bought that carriage too. They’re mine. He can’t tell me I can’t leave.”

“All right, all right,” Harry says again, with his hands out to calm him.

Louis sighs and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry.” After a moment Louis lets their eyes catch, and Harry thinks he sees a flicker of amusement there. “I left him a note.”

That strikes Harry as quite funny; the picture of old Monsieur Tomlinson stalking into the kitchen on Rue Saint Martin to find a scrap of paper that says Louis left town is too much, and Harry snorts before he can help it. “You left him. A note.”

Louis smiles now, as if seeing the humour in it for the first time, and he starts to giggle. Harry chuckles too, picturing the sour-milk contortions of old Tomlinson’s face, and soon they are both laughing, the sounds of their voices rising together and filling the large, airy space of the carriage house.

They sigh and look at each other, straight on for the first time since Louis got here, and Harry can see the teenager underneath the man. He’s still there, the boy that sat next to him every day in the studio and every night at dinner for that year in school. Next to him at night too, in the darkness. Until Harry left and didn’t come back.

“What brings you out to visit?” Harry finally asks.

Louis puts his cup down on Harry’s work bench, and traces the wood there absently. “I like it here.”

“No you don’t.” Harry smiles. “It’s too quiet, remember?” Louis had said that once, when he’d visited a few years ago, on holiday from Rome. He’d been bored to tears, unused to the dull, slow-moving hours on the farm, where there was little company to distract, and he had feigned sadness when the time came for him to return to Paris.

But Louis’ profile is thoughtful now as he looks out over the hay field, where two teams of horses pull hay rakes with farmhands walking behind. The cut hay forms long golden trails to be piled onto wagons that will be stacked in the barn over winter.

“This is an honest place,” Louis says softly, without turning. “Not like Paris.” Louis crosses his arms and shifts his weight, leaning against the jamb. His usual self-assuredness seems to have slipped away from him completely, and there is something sad in the set of his jaw.

Harry walks toward the door. “What do you mean?”

“There aren’t any liars here,” Louis says, after a beat. “The ground is honest. The work is, too. Do you see that man?” He points to one of the farmhands with his chin. “He sees what needs to be done and does it. No critics, no posturing for position, no … false accolades. I envy him.” The sweet-smelling summer air breezes near them and Louis takes a deep breath, still looking out at the sunlight shimmering off the rows. “I envy you.”

“Envy me? Good lord, man, why?” Harry chuckles gently, with a little gesture toward the rustic carriage house studio.

“Because you don’t have to go back.”

A years-old image rises in Harry’s mind, of sitting at the dining table on Rue Saint Martin with Louis’ father at the head. There had been criticism, expectations, and a foregone future, mapped out as if it was already done. And there had been Louis’ eyes, hiding.

Harry’s heart thuds. Louis cannot be thinking of walking away from it all. He’s too … _good_.

“What do you want to do?”

Louis suddenly looks ten years older; Harry notices the stubble on his chin, the greenish shadows under his eyes. He almost takes a step closer, to hug him, to ward away whatever fear has taken hold of him. But they haven’t held each other like that since they were younger, and there is a distance between them now, a divide Harry doesn’t know how to bridge, so he stays fixed to his spot.

When Louis speaks, his voice is weary. “I want to stay here. Ten days? Just to clear my head.”

“Of course, mother would love that,” Harry says.

With that Louis seems to brighten a bit, and straighten up. “It will be fine.” He nods and brushes his hands together as if sweeping off the remnants of the confusion that had him off balance. He turns to Harry and offers a small smile. “I’ll be fine. After a few days.”

The sunlight seems to agree, glinting off the hills of hay, sharp and soft at the same time.

“I know.” It is true, Harry can see it; Louis will gather himself and get back into the fray of Paris as he does, impressing patrons, doing right by his name, making his teachers, his school, his father, all of them, proud. But Harry will get to keep him for a precious little while.

“What are you working on?”

“A portrait. Have a look.” Harry heads back to his easel, eager to get back to it. He dabs into some violet on his palette and mixes it with a bit of midnight blue. As Louis approaches he touches the brush to the canvas, deepening a shadow under Madame Bernard’s collar. It will give the darkness some depth, and will help to bring out the blue of her eyes.

“Well done,” Louis says. “You must know her well.”

“I did. Her farm was the next one, just there …” Harry points with the end of his brush over his shoulder. “She passed away a few weeks ago. Her husband asked me to paint her portrait.”

Louis’ hand hovers over her cheek. “The way you rendered her skin … it’s so warm. Like her heart’s really beating.” He seems to want to say more, but then folds his arms and tilts his head, examining the painting with a thoughtful look.

“What?”

“How do you … do that? With no model, how do you know how to, capture …”

Harry is confused. “What are you talking about? We learned together, remember? You know how, just the same as I do.”

“No, not like you. I learned how to make perfect copies of other men’s masterpieces. I learned how to draft. I didn’t learn how to _create something_. To be an artist.”

Louis’ face is changing, his eyes too, to that flat, tarnished silver Harry cannot stomach.

“Here, roll up your sleeves. Paint that,” Harry says, with a toss of his head toward the field. It comes out like a command, the same way Monsieur Tomlinson would speak to them at the studio.

“No, I’d rather watch you.”

Harry makes a face. “I’m painting a portrait, from sketches. Nothing like your work. Do the landscape. I’ll get you a canvas,” he says, gesturing again toward the scene outside.

“No, Harry, I don’t have any of my tools, my …” Louis looks around and shrugs. “My drafting equipment.”

“Pssh. You don’t need those things. You have your eyes, don’t you? Just paint it how you see it.” His voice is gentler, sounding more like a suggestion this time; he senses that Louis is balancing on a tight string, where pressure might make it snap.

Louis’ lips press together and he turns away. “I will, tomorrow. I promise. Today I just want to …” He trails off, looking out at the field. “I just want to be here.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a minute. This Louis is like a twin to the one he used to know. No, more like an imposter. An imposter who has escaped the constrictions and stresses of the city, shrugged out of them like a coat that was too tight.

“You can just be here tomorrow too,” Harry finally says. “And the next day, and the next day.” He turns back to the portrait. “As long as you need.”

He picks up red ochre with his brush and adds it to the shadow. The work is not due to Madame Bernard’s widower for a few weeks. Perhaps they could do something tomorrow, just the two of them. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with painting.

“Let’s walk to the castle tomorrow.”

“The castle?” Louis turns to him with a face that looks as if Harry has suggested they’ll walk to Paris to skinny dip in the Seine. “It’s so far!”

They can see it from here, past the field, its tower and turrets just peeking over the distant tree line that borders the farm.

“Not that far. You remember.”

“I do. But … why don’t we take the carriage?” Louis asks, his tone just this side of a whine. “Or the horses?”

Harry is reminded of the fairy tale his sister used to tell him when they were little, about the city mouse and the country mouse. “The walk will do you good. Fresh air.” He gives Louis a little smile. “We can stop at the post, see if your letter arrived.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “It probably hasn’t.”

“And we can walk the square. Perhaps explore the tunnels.”

Louis’ face tightens. “Ugh, I can’t go down there.”

“What? Why?”

“And anyway, once we get there we’ll have to walk all the way back.”

“We’ll have to find you a good pair of walking boots then,” Harry says, looking down at Louis’ city shoes.

“And some trousers as well,” Louis grouses. “And a shirt.” He picks at the long lace cuffs that almost hide his hands. But Harry notices his eyebrows are soft again, and he is nearly smiling.

◊ ◊ ◊

Later that evening, Harry knocks on the door of his sister’s old room. The lamp in there must be nearly out of oil, but he knows Louis doesn’t want them to fuss over him, so he’s probably bumbling around in the dark.

“Louis?” Harry calls out softly when there is no answer. He knocks again.

It is not yet late; perhaps Louis snuck out to the garden to look at the stars or listen for owls. He liked to do that the last time he visited. But there is a dim slant of light under the door.

It creaks softly as Harry opens it, and the shape on Gemma’s bed under the quilt moves a bit.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise …”

“It’s all right,” Louis says, his voice a cottony whisper. “Come in.”

“But you’re sleeping. Or. Almost.” Harry slips in, but the floorboards creak so loudly that surely the whole house can hear, and he is immediately sorry he ever thought this visiting idea made sense. He sets the full lamp on the bedside cabinet after an endless, noisy journey across the room and turns to go.

“How can I be homesick, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

Louis perches up on his elbow, and he rubs his eyes with his other hand. Under Gemma’s summer quilt he looks completely out of his element, like a giant who has been found by elves in the forest.

“But you’ve only just arrived.” A vision of Louis gathering his few things and harnessing his horse for the journey home makes Harry bite his lip. There will be no walk to town, no wandering adrift behind the castle battlements, no descending into the mystery of the cool, damp tunnels underneath. “Are you not feeling well? I can bring you up some water and biscuits.”

“No, no, I’m quite well, actually.” Louis gives him a small smile, running his hand over the pink and yellow triangles on the quilt. “I just meant … when I’m home, in Paris? I …” He looks away and shakes his head. “I feel like a visitor there, or … an actor?… I’m playing a part. I’m wearing a costume and I know the lines, but I’m not home, there. I don’t feel connected. To any of it.”

Harry sits on the foot of the bed next to Louis’ legs. “Maybe you want to go back to Rome?” He swallows, nervous at the thought. “You liked it there, didn’t you?”

Louis is staring down at his hands, but his eyes aren’t really seeing. When he speaks again, it’s not about Rome or Paris.

“We don’t have to go to the tunnels, do we?”

“Why?”

“It’s dark down there. Scary. We could get lost.”

“Why is it scary? I’ve been going through them ever since I was little. I know them like the back of my hand.”

“I know, but … I have this strange feeling, Harry.” The muscle in Louis’ cheek knots as he grits his teeth together. “If I go down there, I’m afraid that I’ll never come out.”

Harry’s first instinct is to chuckle and make light of Louis’ silliness, but the silence between them is heavy and Harry doesn’t want to spoil what that means.

“We’ll have candles, so it won’t be dark. And I promise I’ll be right there next to you. You won’t get lost.”

Then Louis looks at him plainly, and for the thinnest of moments there is accusation in his eyes; it says _you aren’t next to me, you left, and now look at me, trying to find my way_ , but then it’s gone, replaced with the soft, clear sky blue eyes that Harry knows, and he is left to wonder if he imagined it.

“Let’s go to Saint Q’s instead.”

Harry balks. “Oh Lord help us, no.”

“Why not? It’s been too long since I’ve seen your _Crucified Christ_.”

“Ugh,” Harry shakes his head, rising. The painting is fraught with problems. Christ’s forehead is too high and the shadows cast by his cross are entirely wrong. The drapery is too busy, and there is something off about the perspective that Harry wrestled with for weeks before realising it couldn’t be fixed. They are mistakes that no one else sees, but to Harry they glare boldly from the picture and remind him what a poor draftsman he is. It’s fine for the townspeople, people that have known him since he was little, who think fondly of him and are proud of him. But Harry dreads the idea of Louis seeing it. “That painting … I wish I could do it over.”

“Perhaps,” Louis says. “But it makes me feel something. Let’s go see it. Tomorrow.”

Harry groans in protest, and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I’ve come all this way. And anyway, I’ll just go myself if you don’t come.” Louis smiles, knowing he’s won.

“Fine, all right. Can’t argue since you’re our guest, I suppose.”

“Perfect.” Louis leans back again, eyes drowsy, ready for sleep.

“All right, I’ll be going. Goodnight.”

“Wait, do you think you could, um …”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

Louis nods. “It’s so quiet.”

Harry eyes the foot of the bed, but sits at the floor with his back against its side instead.

“Talk about something,” Louis says, adjusting the pillow under his head and closing his eyes.

“Like what?”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that.” But secretly, Harry’s heart sings. His mother closes down whenever Harry mentions him, and Gemma’s gone now, out in Saint-Brice with her own family.

“I do. Tell me.”

“All right,” Harry says, trying to figure out where to start. Louis stirs a bit as Harry begins, and for a while he is awake and listening. He remarks “He did?” when Harry tells about how his father always used to win the nail driving contests in town at the fair, and “I never knew that” during the story of how Gemma fell off her horse when she was eight and their father carted her to the town doctor in a wheelbarrow, singing to her all the way.

Harry goes on, describing how he would tell them stories and draw little scenes to go with them in the dirt with long sticks, and Harry and Gemma would add to the story with their own drawings, and soon the whole barn floor would be covered with elaborate scenes depicting Icarus flying into the sun or deer and squirrels having tea parties in the woods.

Louis’ breathing is slow and long, and he has stopped answering. The rhythmic rising and falling sound is pleasant and warm, and Harry wants to talk for a bit longer, so he does, telling what he knows about the night his father died. He speaks matter-of-factly about the fire at the pub, and sadly about how his mother would sit at the kitchen table long into the night for weeks after.

“But I was only ten. I didn’t know what to say to her.”

Harry turns to Louis, whose face in sleep finally looks peaceful, with eyelashes resting lightly on his cheeks and lips slightly parted. Harry would like to pull the quilt up over his shoulder, or fold his arm back onto the mattress instead of letting his hand hang over as it is.

He eases away from the bed instead, not wanting to risk waking him. He lets himself have a long minute to stand there, just looking, then tiptoes the few steps to blow out the lamp.


	4. The Salon, 1824

_26 August, 1824_

_My Dear Harry,_

_I’ve begun a letter then crumpled it, begun again and scratched it out, begun again and ripped it to pieces._

_Perhaps I will succeed with my fourth attempt._

_I hope this letter finds you well and determined to press on._

_Let me say if I will ever again have the opportunity to support you and your work to Monsieur Gravois, or indeed to any critic, or defend you to the elite of Paris, or to the masses in the streets, or quite honestly to King Charles himself I will do so, heartily and completely._

_I am a draftsman, Harry. But you are an exceptionally great painter. Those at the Salon may not see it, because like sheep they are easily led; they prefer spoon feeding and must stay huddled on the path the flock finds safest. But as plain as the sun dawning a new day through my window, change is coming. I am sorry for them, and sorry for myself, for failing to recognise it until now. While we may stand admiring the tedious, tired works of old men, the future stares back at us in your work; it is in the form of a new expression of colour and line, a beauty so complex that we cannot comprehend it, a feeling the frame can hardly hold._

_Harry, as I told you when we stood together on the edges of that hallowed room, I truly do not think their eyes can see it._

_But you must continue to show them. Please, show them, show us, show me, until we see._

_It has been too long. I’ve only just laid eyes on you last evening, and yet this morning it seems as if that may have been weeks ago. I should have made you stay. No, I should have swept you up and out of that commotion and we should have left together. We should have gone away alone, back to a room for just the two of us, and talked the way we used to. I regret that._

_I do not hazard a guess as to when this letter will find you. You are on your way back to the country, I should think, back to your lovely carriage house studio. That is your home, and you miss it, as I do. I can picture you there, working, and I pray you will continue. I will come to check on you to make sure, the very day the Crowning of Socrates is completed, if the invitation still stands._

_Most sincerely,_

_Louis_

◊ ◊ ◊

Opening night of the Paris Salon is a gala the likes of which Harry has only dreamt about.

It is the largest collection of the most important art works in all of Europe gathered in one place, juried by the members of the Académie. Louis had been to the event before, many times, due to his father’s participation in the exhibition, and Louis had described the scene in detail to Harry when they were just junior students, dreaming about what lay ahead for them.

Of course Louis told him how the paintings would be displayed, several hundred of them hung frame to frame, floor to ceiling in the largest galleries of the Louvre. The most influential and important works are hung at eye level, while the lesser works, by talent or reputation, are hung higher.

He told Harry about the crushing crowds of who would go to see it. “Thousands of people, Harry, lining the streets to get in,” he’d say dramatically, and Harry would hang on his every word, fascinated and a bit petrified. The artists themselves would be there, of course, representing their work, but there would also be members of the jury, art collectors, dealers, curators, and patrons. Louis said they’d be dressed every which way, some in their finest clothes, the women with their faces powdered and painted, the men in their tail-coats and boutonnieres. Others would come right off the street, looking as if they may have spent their last ten francs on a ticket. But all would be bright-eyed, eager to take in all the event has to offer.

“And of course there are the critics and the writers, reporting it all,” Louis would say, walking around with a self-important expression, pointing with his nose in the air.

Louis told him that the exhibition had a distinctive smell made up of cigar smoke, fresh paint, and perfume that made the air bitter and sweet at the same time. 

It’s making Harry’s head pound. Or perhaps that’s the fault of the noise; Louis hadn’t mentioned anything about the relentless roar that results when throngs of people gather in a wide open space, with so much to see and so much to say.

Not that anyone is saying much to Harry, of course. He stands fidgeting on the edge of the huge gallery, alone, except for a few acquaintances he went to Beaux-Arts with, and a brash, salt-and-pepper-haired woman with a large green bonnet who wouldn’t let go of his arm while interrogating him about his work. Guests and artists alike are giving him a wide berth; Harry assumes this is typical for an artist who isn’t one of the household names. He submitted his painting on a bet, after all.

Harry hadn’t even considered trying to show in the exhibition. He hadn’t had a major commission, hadn’t completed a public project other than the altarpiece and side chapels at Saint Quiriace. But Louis had encouraged him in his letters, saying that as a former student of the Académie, Harry would have just as much chance as anyone else, or more, because of his talent and experience. They agreed to settle the wager with a bottle of wine, and Harry brought three paintings to Paris for the review.

That was weeks ago, but Harry is still feeling the same rush of nerves tonight as he did when he stood at the post opening the acceptance letter from the Académie. It is a strange sensation, made up simultaneously of exultation and dread. He’d scribbled off a letter to Louis, with only three words. “I owe you.”

Just one of Harry’s paintings, _The Needle_ , had been accepted, but that is enough; Harry looks up at it now, his study of Gemma teaching Virginie how to sew in their sunny front room. It seems primitive in a way, almost frivolous among the larger works depicting epic battles at sea and classic scenes of mythology and dramatic allegory. But the members of the jury must have seen something worthwhile in it, even if it is hung with the other less popular works up near the ceiling instead of low on the wall.

That’s where Louis should be, in the prestigious front corner of the gallery near his painting _Jason with the Golden Fleece_. There is a crowd of onlookers gathered in the celebrated spot near the door, but Louis isn’t among them.

Harry scans the room again for him, nervously adjusting the lace cuffs of his shirt. His brand new dark blue tail-coat was purchased especially for this occasion, but his Paris shirt, as he refers to it fondly, is seven years old. It is the one Madame Tomlinson measured him for in her parlour on Rue Saint-Martin as Louis nervously looked on, placing himself between Harry and the door as if to stop him if Harry should make a run for it. The first time Harry put the shirt on a week later, he felt as if he could actually do it; he could go to the Beaux-Arts celebration with the students and instructors and feel as if he belonged.

He began to imagine it a uniform for a job he had to do, as a priest puts on vestments, or a judge at court would don his black robes. The shirt did carry him through that night, and since then Harry wears it like armour, of a sort, only on the rare occasions when he has to present himself in the city. Going to Paris is like going into battle, after all, and there isn’t anyone he needs to have beside him in the trenches more than Louis.

He spots a few familiar faces, standing still among the crowd like flowers in a field while bees and birds buzz and circle around them. There is the artist Paul Delaroche, holding court next to his dark, cave-like rendering of a Cardinal questioning his prisoner Joan of Arc. He also recognises John Constable from England, a head taller than everyone else, standing in front of the most popular of his three six-footers. It’s a moody, lovely landscape with horses pulling a wagon across a shallow stream.

When Harry finally spots Louis it is at the edge of one of those circles, just below his father’s painting on the opposite side of the room. Monsieur Tomlinson is at its centre, dabbing at his sweaty bald head with a handkerchief while Louis smiles and nods politely. But Harry notices that Louis is rubbing his hands together, something he does when he’s nervous or impatient.

Harry begins to walk toward him, dodging and bumping through the crowd. He forgets about his pounding head, thinking only about making his way to Louis, who looks dashing with his hair a bit longer than Harry has ever seen it, swept over his forehead and curling a bit above his ears.

“Excuse me, pardon.” Harry winds his way through, keeping his eye on Louis. But with each step closer it seems he is farther away, with more people blocking his path. He turns himself sideways to slip through a small opening in the current, and when he comes out the other side Louis has caught sight of him, stepping away from his father with his hand up in a wave.

“Pardon me,” Harry says again, heart leaping. Louis is right there, just twenty steps away, with what may as well be an ocean of people between them.

“Harry!” Louis shouts. “This way!” Louis points to where there is an opening, and Harry shuffles between two old women in lace shawls to get closer. Louis is making his way too, going right and then left; Harry loses sight of him behind a man who is as broad as a tree. “Dammit,” he whispers under his breath, fighting a slightly irrational fear that Louis could slip through his fingers and disappear among the sea of black tail-coats.

He keeps moving, but Louis’ shining smile is nowhere, until he feels a hand on his shoulder, and hears the soft voice that is his favourite, somehow clear and close in all the noise. He turns and is enfolded before he can even see, Louis crushing him tightly. They are all alone for just a moment, and Harry lets his eyes close, laughing into Louis’ high collar.

“You surprised me,” he chuckles, wanting to never let go.

“That makes one of us.” Louis moves away too soon, but kisses Harry on both cheeks. His eyes catch on the ruffles of Harry’s shirt and he lifts a hand as if to touch them; instead, he lays his palm flat on the breast of Harry’s coat so briefly it feels like a mistake. “You look well.”

“As do you.”

Louis smiles at Harry warmly before turning away and looking up. Harry follows his gaze to his own painting, a bright spot of gold and green in a checkerboard of brown and black canvases, three quarters of the way up the wall. “I knew it. I told you, didn’t I?”

“You told me. And I’ll pay up, I promise.” They laugh together, and a happiness bubbles up in Harry that he hasn’t felt since the day he found out he’d be here exhibiting. He’s proud of himself, proud of both of them here in the thick of it all, right in the centre of the world.

“No, I don’t mean about the bet. I told you we’d be great artists someday, didn’t I?”

Harry’s face is reddening, he can feel it. If this is what being a great artist feels like, it might just be worth it, if Louis is going to stand next to him and—

“Impressive work, Tomlinson.”

A tall, thin man with a long neck and spectacles has appeared beside them.

Louis’ voice is flat. “Thank you. Have you met —”

“The composition, it’s … dynamic, and the rendering … so true to life, from the colour and depth in the clouds down to the most trivial details of the drapery. Not to mention the grace in that extraordinary pose. Quite remarkable, Tomlinson.”

“But does it make you feel anything, Gravois? That is the question.”

“Feel?” Gravois looks as if Louis has spoken in ancient Greek. “I … I’m not sure what you …”

Louis’ smile is paper thin. “Didn’t think so.”

Harry isn’t sure why Louis is being so ill-mannered, but he decides to step in just to smooth things over. “I find it quite powerful. It has to do with the juxtaposition of the figures. They come right at the viewer, forcing us to engage in the scene, don’t you agree?”

“And you are?” The man looks at Harry, squinting.

“August Gravois, this is Harry Styles. Gravois is a critic, Harry. He writes painting and sculpture reviews for The Gazette. But some might say fiction is his strong suit.”

Gravois doesn’t seem to catch the slight, and is slow to shake Harry’s outstretched hand. “Ahh, Styles is it? Yes, I was just hearing about you. You’re from Verdun?”

“Provins.”

“Quite so, Provins. And your picture is up there, is it? Hmm,” he says, craning his neck. “Skyed. How unfortunate.”

Harry is familiar with the insulting term used to describe the placement of the lesser pieces in the exhibition. The pride he felt just seconds ago drains out of his chest and sinks painfully to his stomach; his knees feel like they have gone to soup.

“Yes. It is _quite_ unfortunate.” Louis takes a step forward, his tone changed from mischievous to utterly serious. “The most unfortunate mistake of the evening, in fact, because no one here will be able to see it up close. I’ve seen it up close, and it quite literally took my breath away. Whoever hung it up there was misinformed.”

“Oh well, uh, certainly … the jury, of course the jury would have … decided …” Gravois stammers, looking from Louis to Harry and back again.

“Look at the relationship there. That is a mother and her child.”

The three of them look up at Harry’s painting, transfixed by Louis’ words.

“You can feel the closeness, the tenderness, can you not? The way the mother cradles the girl. The gold of the sunlight, the chestnut brown of their hair, the simple lines of their aprons. I smell bread baking. I feel the thread between their fingers. And I can hear their words. That painting is a door into a world, Gravois, a precious world that we don’t see enough on these canvases. It’s a world of warmth and safety. Don’t you just want to join them there? Sit with them? Be a part of their gentle conversation? And isn’t that what we want from a painting? Something that draws us in, and fills our hearts? Don’t we want to _feel_ something?”

Gravois opens his mouth as if to answer, but closes it again, unsure; Harry is dumbstruck as well, reeling a bit from Louis’ critique.

“I suggest you get yourself a ladder, Monsieur Gravois,” Louis says. “That’s the painting you’ll want to write about for tomorrow’s Gazette.”

It’s clear by Louis’ tone that Gravois is dismissed.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” Gravois mumbles, the pinched look on his face revealing that it’s been nothing of the sort. He backs away from them and disappears into the crowd.

“What a dreadful man,” Louis says. “How is it that a person can so closely resemble a drowned chicken, but turn into a horse’s arse when he opens his mouth?”

Harry is still trying to piece together what just happened, and he needs a minute for his head to stop spinning. “What?”

“Ugh, I hate nothing so strongly as politics disguised as pretentiousness. This room is filled to the rafters with it.” Louis leans in close. It is soothing, for a moment, and lovely to forget where they are, to put their heads together and speak in hushed tones below the din of loud voices to share a secret, as they used to. “How many of these critics,” Louis puts a bitter spin on the word, “do you think have ever been in a room with an actual paintbrush, hmm?” Harry has to give him a small smile even though his head is pounding again. “Do you think they know what one looks like? Would they recognise one, if I should _gouge their eyes out with it?”_ Louis spins and raises his voice in Gravois’ general direction.

“Shhh, Louis, don’t make a scene.”

“That’s all this is. A _scene_. Do you know what that noise is, all around us? It’s everyone talking. Talking, talking, talking and not saying a fucking word. Wait, Harry, are you all right? You don’t look well.”

The circling crowd seems to have a pull to it, and Harry feels like he might be swallowed up. The painted smiles that were pretty before look menacing now, and the rising laughter all around them sounds cruel. A new thought is banging around inside Harry’s head, and he has to speak it to stop the pain that might blind him.

“Louis, did you pull a string to get me here?”

Louis looks as if he’s been slapped. “What? No, no. Jesus … you got here on your own. I swear it.”

“Skyed,” Harry mutters, chuckling weakly. He wipes his lip that is damp with sweat.

“What? Come on, let’s get some air.”

Harry is sorry he said it now, seeing Louis’ stricken look, but he is suddenly not sure if he can tell up from down. The rest of the faces in the room are a blur, and Harry tries to find the door. His head hurts.

“No, you stay, I’m going. I have to go.”

“Harry, let me come with —”

Their hands touch each other at the last moment, Louis grasping for Harry’s wrist and Harry attempting a half-hearted shake that is both “I missed you” and “goodbye,” but their fingers can’t hold before the way clears, and Harry leaves all the noise behind.


	5. The Shirt, 1824

_4 October, 1824_

_My dear Harry,_

_I shall call you that, for you are dear to me._

_You showed me my heart, showed me that I was in possession of one. I had forgotten it, or pushed it down in favour of something else. My mind? My fear? My father? All of it is too big, sometimes, and my own heart’s beating was a distant sound, like a memory, until you woke it. That is why you are dear, why even the thin veil of a sheet that covers you is too much a barrier between us._

_Will you let me paint you this way? I will ask you._

_You are awake now, and I think I may have never seen a more beautiful sight._

_I wonder if I will send this letter._

_I believe I will._

_You will bring it out from the post and read it on the square. No, it will be cold by then, so you will tuck the letter into your pocket and walk with it home. You will stoke the fire in the little parlour and read it as you get warm. When you do, I hope you will remember how we felt as I sat in this chair in your rented room with the blue curtains. Remember how we told the truth. Remember how much love there was to be made when we were finally unafraid._

_Remember, as I will, dearest to my heart._

_L_

◊ ◊ ◊

When Harry knocks on the door he’s a bit out of breath. He’d broken into a run outside, to avoid the downpour, and then walked up three flights to get to Louis’ studio. But nerves are also partially to blame.

While he’s waiting he looks down with a smile at the wine bottle he brought all the way from Provins. He straightens the crushed red ribbon bow around the neck, regretting how he held it under his coat to protect it from the rain. Perhaps it’s silly; the wine isn’t a present, after all, it’s payment for a bet. But Harry wanted to dress it up for this day that feels special, and not even the rain can dampen his spirits.

He runs a hand through his damp hair and takes a deep breath before knocking again, harder this time. “Louis?” he calls. “It’s Harry.” He eyes the doorknob and swallows. “Louis?” It turns easily, and he walks through.

If Harry didn’t know better he might think he’d found a theatre prop room or a costume shop. He didn’t think it was possible, but the studio is even more crowded than when Harry was here last, back in May. He walks around wooden mannequins and dozens of bolts of fabric, all manner of antique looking chairs, books, and musical instruments, and even a small pile of wooden swords of various lengths. The cluttered place is half a country away from Harry’s carriage house studio at the farm, literally and figuratively; standing among all these things it seems utterly implausible to Harry that he and Louis are actually practicing the same profession.

“Louis?” he calls again as he walks between two coat racks hung with shawls and hats.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Louis’ voice comes from the back corner of the huge room, where Louis keeps his easels. “Harry?”

Louis walks out from behind a massive canvas, ten feet across and six high.

“Harry! Ahh, you’ve brought me something, I see!” Louis wipes his hands, then walks toward Harry with his arms outstretched.

Harry puts the bottle down on the nearest table, which is actually a waist-high replica of a Doric column. “I’m wet,” Harry says, but Louis hugs him anyway, a strong embrace that presses Harry’s chest to his.

“I don’t care. You’re here.”

“Yes, I’m here.” It’s a whisper. Harry breathes in the smell of Louis' hair, his skin.

“For how long?” Louis whispers back, and like that they are boys again, quiet in Harry’s bed, the only two people in the world. Harry closes his eyes and tilts his head so their temples touch, and suddenly he has to grip Louis tighter, the feeling of Louis’ body in his arms so warm and real, the only tangible flesh-and-bone truth in a room full of props in a city full of strangers. Louis’ fingers press into his back and they breathe together, settled, just once before Louis is pulling back and Harry has to let him go.

“For how long?” Louis asks again, this time from two steps away, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“For … a while, actually. Two weeks? There was a woman at the Salon who was interested in my work. Her husband’s a count, I think, or a baron? He travels often, and she’d like me to paint his portrait. I’m renting a room in a boarding house on Avenue Victoria, near Saint-Chapelle.”

Louis flashes a proud smile. “She must have read Gravois’ review in the Gazette.”

Harry laughs, warm with relief that they can slip back into this closeness, even after their rocky parting of ways at the Salon. “That was your doing.”

“No, that was _your_ doing. You painted it, I just pointed him in the right direction.”

“I never thanked you. So. Thank you.” Harry pauses, looking down at his feet, then back to Louis. “For what you said.”

“It was the truth. Yours was the brightest spot in the whole room.” Louis’ eyes shine, then his gaze falls down to the damp ruffles on Harry’s shirt. He shakes his head. “Still?”

Harry looks down too, at his Paris shirt. “I can’t help it. It’s my favourite. It’s Paris.” Harry shrugs, half-smiling, half-cringing, the “it’s _us_ ” left unsaid, though loud inside his head.

“I’d say you need a new one, desperately. But. It suits you.” Louis takes up the bottle and twists the cork. “Let’s open this, yes?” It releases with a soft pop, and Louis takes a whiff. “Mmm, I do love this red.” His smile makes him look young, like he did when they first tasted it at the farm, and Harry is so mesmerised that Louis has to tell him twice that he should have the first sip.

“No you, you won the bet,” Harry says, coming back to the moment.

“All right then.” Louis tips the bottle back and drinks, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just as good as I remember.”

Harry drinks when Louis offers the bottle, and the familiar rich earthiness calms his nerves a bit. “Yes, delicious,” Harry agrees. He’s saying yes to the wine, but also yes to remembering; he’s saying yes to Louis’ lips stained red, yes to a room that smells of oil and solvent and gesso, yes to all of these odd and wonderful costumes and accessories. Yes to the evening that stretches out ahead of them.

“May I?” he asks as he steps toward Louis’ canvas.

“After you,” Louis says with his hand out, letting Harry by.

Louis has been working for months on _Socrates Crowned_ , his commission for the university library, and Harry has only heard about its progress through his letters. He thought he was prepared, but what he sees when he turns the corner makes him draw in his breath.

Because the afternoon is dim with rain Louis has four oil lamps lit to paint by, so the canvas fairly glows. In the centre is a broad, heroic looking shirtless man sitting high in the throne of a Grecian temple, while an angel with wings unfurled presents him with a laurel wreath. They are surrounded by men and women in classical robes. By their accoutrements, Harry can tell they are the Greek gods, goddesses, fates, and muses that reign over wisdom, science, and the arts. A stately woman with a helmet and spear stands in the background on the highest step, her snowy white owl perched on her shoulder. She is Athena, overseeing it all.

Even in the overcast grey of the room and partially covered with burlap, the work is stunning.

“Louis, this is …” Harry can only gape at it, at a loss for words. “Striking” doesn’t capture its power, “exquisite” doesn’t truly describe its beauty.

“Ugh, is it terrible?” Louis takes the bottle from Harry’s hand and gulps down a swig.

“Terrible? Louis it’s … look what you’ve done.” There is not a brushstroke to be seen. Harry stands drinking in the colours and textures, admiring the warm curve of a bare ankle, the cold, hard surface of marble, the deep onyx of the owl’s wise eye.

But Louis regards it with a kind of objective distance, leaning against the wall, bored. “I’ve been looking at it too long, I can’t even see it anymore.”

“Well, I can. And it’s magnificent.”

When Harry finally turns away from the painting he finds Louis crossing his arms and pressing his lips together, not altogether successful in hiding his smile. “Do you think so? You’re not just … making me feel better because I’ve sunk five months into it?”

“Louis, I always tell you the truth.”

“I know.” Louis’ smile is wider now, and their eyes connect for a warm moment before he turns away and takes another sip of wine. “Come,” he says, tossing his head, and walks off to the opposite corner of the studio, dodging a potted plant, a large metal helmet, and a Greek amphora painted with wrestlers on the way.

He takes them to a large wooden table strewn with papers large and small, scattered in stacks and loose piles. There are dozens and dozens of them; some are thick stock with bright multicoloured sketches of buildings and landscapes, some are ripped sketchbook sheets that show only quick charcoal gesture drawings. The largest are scroll-like, rolled up and tied closed with twine.

“What’s all this?”

“Oh, just warm-ups, practice, that sort of thing.” Louis picks up one of the scrolls and slips his thumb under the string to loosen it.

“Beautiful,” Harry says, spotting a lovely sketch of a young girl reading on a garden bench. He shifts the papers to see a quick figure drawing of a couple talking at a café table, and then a playful little picture of a long-eared puppy. He picks up a detailed study of an elderly woman’s hands peeling an apple with a knife. These are so different than the formal, epic works Louis creates for the public; they are small and intimate and lovely, and Harry wants to look at them all, to see inside the window to another part of Louis no one else gets to see. As he tucks it back into the pile his eyes catch on an image that makes his heart skip.

His own face, his own hair, his own smile stare up at him.

“Here’s my working design for _Hercules and Diomedes,_ for Colonel Beaumont.” Louis unrolls the large draft and places it down in front of him. “It’s a triptych,” he says, already pointing to the three sections of the detailed design.

Harry is aware of Louis saying words but he doesn’t hear them, because in his hand is a charcoal sketch of himself looking like he did the night of the Salon, wearing his tail-coat and gazing up thoughtfully with his arms crossed. His heart pounds hotly as he finds another in the same stack, of him in his simple farm shirt with his collar unbuttoned, smiling at the viewer, his hair short and curling over his forehead the way it did when he was younger.

“Two main figures in the foreground here, horses and soldiers on each side,” Louis continues, unaware. “But something is wrong with the perspective. It’s … unbalanced, or perhaps it’s the scale that’s off, I’m not sure.”

The next one Harry finds is a composite, three of Harry’s faces on the same page. One with his mouth open and eyes closed, laughing, one looking down pensively as if he’s thinking of sad news, and one with angrily slanted eyebrows and a tight mouth. Another page has Harry sitting, as if in front of an easel, his face focused and concentrating. He is older, the way he is now, with his hair a bit longer and his cheekbones more pronounced.

A new silence makes Harry finally look up, to find that Louis isn’t talking anymore. He can only stand and stare, the evidence out in the open, too clear to hide.

“How … when did you …” Harry begins.

Louis takes a step back and looks away, guilty. He takes a sip of wine in an attempt to shrug it off. “Yours is the face I know best, so, best to practice with.” But his eyes shift, looking down at the pile as Harry pulls out another drawing, this time a delicate pencil sketch of himself sleeping, the sheet drawn up to his naked waist and one arm thrown over his head. Next he uncovers a nude study of himself from behind, his shoulders tilted and his back turned as if he’s drying himself after a bath.

Harry swallows hard, heart pounding.

“Louis,” he whispers, taking a step toward him.

But Louis’ face looks just like it did when he stole away from Paris years ago, barely balancing on that string. He backs away and they are strangers again, on opposite sides of that divide.

Harry puts the drawings down between them and takes another step. We can cross this, we can, he thinks, I know these tunnels, I know them like the back of my hand. I’ll be right next to you, we’ll have candles, we won’t get lost.

“Louis,” Harry says softly again, reaching out to touch Louis’ hand. Louis is unmoving this time, and lets Harry get closer, although he doesn’t look up. They come together by inches, slowly, until they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m guess I’m … still homesick,” Louis whispers, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry sees all of what’s there, the fear, the confusion, the loss.

Harry nods, remembering a day when they sat around a dining table dreaming about who they would be. Remembering a boy who was creative and smart, who carried his sketchbook from morning until night. Remembering a man who laid in a borrowed bed, missing something, a piece of himself that got pushed aside along the way to those dreams.

He touches that boy’s face, that man’s cheek. He leans in close to him so their waists touch, their arms too, and then their chests. Louis closes his eyes and presses his lips together, tense, but Harry comes even closer so the tips of their noses brush. It’s a coaxing, gentle touch, and Harry can feel Louis’ lips part underneath his.

“Let me,” is all Harry can say, and he means let me hold you, let me show you, let me get so close to you that you can’t see anything but us.

When Louis opens his eyes they are sparkling blue. Louis’ hand is on his chest, his fingers pressing through the ruffles of his shirt to the pounding heart beneath. They breathe together, step closer, pull in tighter.

 _We won’t get lost_ is what Harry thinks when their lips touch. Harry’s arms steady them while Louis’ move and caress and hold, one hand in Harry’s hair and the other pressing down the length of his back.

Louis’ soft voice, Harry’s favourite, is satin against his skin and sugar in his mouth. “Take us away from here,” he says, covering Harry’s lips with kisses. “Please, take me to your bed.”

◊ ◊ ◊

“Slower, oh please, slower,” Louis moans softly into Harry’s neck, and his words are the gentle key that unwinds Harry, making his tense muscles relax and his breath deepen.

Clothing has been shed and dropped into careless piles; skin presses against skin from ankles to thighs to chests to shoulders and still Harry can’t get close enough. Louis is underneath him, a light sheen of sweat making the downy hair at his forehead damp. Harry kisses it, letting his lips go slack with pleasure when Louis raises his hips against him again.

Louis kisses his neck, licks up under his jaw and finds his salty, wet lips. The kiss is enough to quicken their tempo, making Louis’ breath come in quick bursts. Harry looks down at him and grasps his hand. His chest is flushing red, like his cheeks, and his eyes are soft and shimmering.

There is all manner of love here, and Harry’s heart could break with it. There is the companionship of classmates first, who learned and tested together, and also respect and esteem, where each admires the talent and skill of the other. But there is also deep friendship, where they can trust and guard each other with the truth. And now there is a flame of passion, where lovers taste and lick and touch to give and take pleasure.

“Sss … slower,” Louis whispers again, and Harry concedes, resting on his elbows so he can feel Louis’ pounding heart hot against his.

“Show me, sweet.” Harry turns them, hooking his arm under Louis’ leg to lift him as they roll over. “Show me.”

They take a moment to catch their breath and Harry kisses the only part of Louis that is within reach, his hands. Fingers that both cupped Harry’s jaw tenderly and gripped his forearms so tightly they left red marks are now pressed to Harry’s lips as Louis looks on, unmoving but to adjust his legs. Harry raises his hips a bit but Louis isn’t ready, just breathes deeply and gazes down, his eyes half-lidded with desire.

Harry has to bite his lip to stay still. His whole body is tingling with butterflies ready to burst out of his skin. He forces himself to wait, and he has to squeeze Louis’ thighs to brace himself; soon Louis nods at him and Harry dips his head too, relaxing completely into what’s to come.

“Like this,” and all of Louis’ sharp, finely-ordered edges go soft as he curves against him, the movement almost painfully slow. Harry yields into Louis’ body, letting him pull back and roll forward, and it forces a rush of heat up Harry’s torso that makes him groan. Louis rises and falls in long, measured movements, letting Harry fully into his softness where they can breathe together and be each other’s.

Harry doesn’t know what the morning will bring, doesn’t want to let his heart go so far as to feel what it will be like to watch Louis pull away. He will watch Louis borrow his razor and smooth his hair with water. He will watch him dress, he will watch him slip on his trousers and fasten the buttons on his city coat. Harry will watch Louis become Louis again.

But for now Harry will love him slowly, and bless his skin with soft kisses until the morning comes.

◊ ◊ ◊

When Harry stirs, the first clue that he’s not at home in Provins is the unfamiliar pink sheet against his bare skin. And the dawn light is blue here, not yellow like in the country, but Harry can make out the cheap furnishings and the heavy blue curtains that cover the window.

It comes back to him. His rented room. Louis.

He is sitting at the desk chair, naked but for Harry’s unbuttoned Paris shirt. On the desk is one of Harry’s sketchbooks, a loose sheet of paper, and his ink bottle, uncapped.

Harry clears his throat and smiles drowsily. “That’s mine.”

“What, this?” Louis gestures down to the portfolio, a tone of innocence in his voice.

“Well, yes, all of that. But you’re wearing my shirt.”

Louis tilts his head, considering his work, then raises the paper to his mouth to blow on it. “Shall I change?”

The shirt is a touch too big, but hangs nicely on Louis’ shoulders, and gives Harry just a glimpse of his chest. “No. I like you in it. It suits you. What are you doing?”

“Writing you a letter.”

“A letter, hmm?” Harry’s heart thrums at the thought. Louis’ letters are precious, and Harry keeps them in a wooden box in the trunk at the foot of his bed. How many times has he retreated to them, on dark, confusing days? He likes to look at Louis’ handwriting, how it changes with his mood. Sometimes he just likes to hold them and run his fingers over the words.

But this letter will be different. It will hold words his lover wrote. What will the handwriting look like? It will be the recognisable formal slant, but Harry imagines it will hold curves, flourishes, the power of what they are together. It will bring him close enough to feel the warmth of Louis’ skin again, though he will just hold paper and ink.

Harry doesn’t care that he cannot hold his voice steady. “And what will this letter say?”

“You’ll know when you read it. When it’s delivered to Provins.” Louis says, dipping Harry’s pen into the inkwell and continuing to write.

“I can’t wait that long. Tell me.”

Louis looks up at him, considering, his face boyish and hair mussed in a way that pulls on Harry’s heart. He twists the corner of his lip in a smile as he finishes a line. “It says that I’d like to paint you. May I?”

Harry is taken aback for a moment, and instinctively curls his legs under him. “Um … my sitting fee is too expensive for you, I’m afraid.”

“Name your price.” And with that Louis is walking toward the bed with a gleam in his eye.

“My price is …” But Louis interrupts him with a kiss that pillows softly over their lips, and Harry forgets what he was going to say. His hand goes up behind Louis’ neck and he tastes his already familiar kiss, and as Louis pulls back they brush their cheeks together, the softness of new whiskers making the faintest whisper of sound.

“You were saying?” Louis gestures for him to turn away so his back is toward him. When Harry does, Louis takes one of his legs at a time and poses it gently, folding one along the top of the other. He motions for Harry to lean on his elbow, just like an exotic courtesan might, and Harry feels the warm trail of Louis’ hand along the curve of his back. The question is forgotten, and Louis nods with satisfaction and returns to the table to draw.

He picks up the pen and sketches a few broad lines to roughly block in the design. He shifts his gaze back and forth, from Harry to the page and back, and it makes Harry blush. Harry likes the sound of the nib against the paper, especially likes knowing that Louis is studying his body, exploring him with his eyes. But soon the sound stops, and Harry sees Louis angling his head and squinting.

“Something’s missing,” Louis says.

“Pardon?”

“I was taught that a painting must always tell a story.”

“A nude man isn’t story enough?” Harry chuckles. “What, are you going to give me a wooden sword so I can slay beasts? No, on second thought, I think I’d like a laurel crown.”

“I should paint you as Cupid … or one of the Muses. But I don’t have any of my props here.” Louis taps his chin thoughtfully.

“You’ll just have to make do,” Harry says, turning his head coyly and dipping his shoulder a bit. But already Louis’ face is shifting with an idea. He brings the pen and inkwell and sets them on the bedside cabinet.

“Yes, the Muses. History, Poetry, Memory ...” Louis is sat on the bed beside him and takes his hand. He gently turns Harry’s arm this way and that, examining the skin.

“What are you doing?”

Louis props Harry’s arm on his lap and dips the pen into the ink. “Hold still.”

“Be careful, what are you—” But when the nib of the pen touches Harry’s skin he goes quiet. The ink flows in thin, precise lines, just as Louis draws them, the subtle drag on his skin making Harry shiver a bit.

“First a book, for History.”

Harry cranes his neck to see, and soon Louis’ lines form the shape of a bound book, with covers and a stack of pages inside, and even a ribbon bookmark. “We have quite a history, don’t we?”

“We do,” Harry murmurs, careful not to move. It is a history together, a history apart, and a history together again. He can’t comfortably watch what Louis is doing, so he watches Louis’ chest rise and fall under the ruffles of his shirt. Harry wants to kiss him there, drag his tongue over the warm skin, taste him. He takes a deep breath, feeling the blood rush, tingling, between his legs.

“Now two hands, for Dance.” Louis dips the pen again and the lines he creates are fingers holding each other, shaking hands.

“What do you think, a heart for Love Poetry? And skull, for Tragedy.” The drawing goes on with Louis shifting his position to get a better angle, and soon he wraps a leg around Harry’s waist to make them more comfortable. Harry rests his hand there and strokes Louis’ knee, liking the sighing sound Louis makes when he’s distracted.

“I’m almost done, be still,” Louis says, feigning annoyance. “This heart is very important, and must be rendered just so.” His free hand touches Harry’s arm around the heart’s edge, and he leans in to kiss the skin.

“And what will we do when you’re done?” Harry shivers at the touch of his lips, still so new, and again feels a pulse in his groin that makes his thighs tighten.

“I will finish my draft, and then I will paint you, of course.”

Louis draws the first line of the skull, broad and oval at the top, then the two circular shapes for the vacant eye sockets. This reminds Harry of his father and tears prick his eyes suddenly; he has to turn his head so Louis doesn’t see him blinking them away.

“Shall we take a break for a bit?” Louis asks, placing the pen on the table beside the inkwell and touching Harry’s hand. “This is tiring work, isn’t it?”

Harry turns and slips his hands up Louis’ torso, following the gentle slope of his ribcage and the slight rise of his chest. The tips of his fingers graze a nipple, and Louis pulls in his breath. Harry smooths his hands over the tops of Louis’ shoulders, pushing the shirt apart until it slides down Louis’ arms. They don’t need it now, and it is cast aside to drape over the edge of the bed.


	6. The Portrait, 1825

Liam refolds the letter carefully and places it in the pile with the rest they’ve already read. There is just one more, by itself, looking lonely with part of its red wax seal missing.

“That’s the last one,” Liam says, making no move to touch it.

“No it isn’t,” Niall says despondently, even though he can see there are no others.

“Yes. It is.”

Niall heaves a sigh. “You know, you could’ve told me that these were love letters. I could have … I don’t know, prepared myself.”

“Would you have believed me?”

Niall shrugs. “No, probably not. But still. My heart can’t take it. And one more letter is going to wrap all of this up?”

Liam says nothing. He takes it in his gloved fingers and hands it to Niall, who takes a breath before unfolding it. They exchange a glance before Liam gives him a nod.

Niall reads haltingly, nervously; his eyes follow the lines across the page as he translates, speaking the English words out loud.

_11 May, 1825_

_Dearest H,_

_You are on my mind. A vision of you haunts me in the dark and makes me get up and pace. My bed is a lonely place. I wish for your stories, and your hand on my heart._

_You will come to Rome with me someday, I know you will. I see you here easily. I feel you walking with me on these crowded, colourful streets. When I look out my window I can see you on the pavement, waving up to me; when I pick fig jams and cheeses from the market you taste them with me._

_To see the smile that will light your face when you see the Pantheon — that will be a brilliant day. And there will be Trevi Fountain, and of course the Colosseum; we will see it all, together, and it will be like seeing it for the first time, seeing it through you._

_But for now I wear our shirt on lonely days._

_You have put your fingerprints on me. Even in Rome I feel them. They are invisible now, yet I carry them everywhere I go; Giovanna, Signore Rossi, even the little boy I give coins to at the fountain, I am sure they can all see them on my skin._

_Our shirt has become your arms around me, so I can be embraced by you always. I will wear it in my sleep. I will slip into its sleeves when I am clean, straight from the bath. It will bring me back to Rue Saint Martin. It will bring me back to the long road to the castle, walking and talking with you. It will bring me back to your rented room on Avenue Victoria. It will bring me your voice talking me to sleep, your lips against my cheek, your eyes on my body. It will bring me back to you, as it brings me back to myself._

_I miss you, H. Write to me, please, I’m waiting every day._

_L_

 

Niall doesn’t say anything for a minute as he holds the letter, looking over its words again. He is blinking and biting his lip, regarding the letter as if it’s both deeply disappointing and supremely satisfying. Which Liam supposes it is.

Niall turns to the painting of the Provins castle. “Styles painted this picture, and that’s Tomlinson in front of the tower.”

“Yes. I believe that’s true.”

“And Tomlinson painted this,” Niall says, pointing to the Styles nude.

“Yes.” Liam doesn’t feel any victory in it now, or vindication; there is just relief, and appreciation for these men who created and loved and died long before he was born.

Niall thinks a minute, then nods to himself. He looks at Liam, colour and excitement suddenly rising in his cheeks. “And what about the D’Orsay portrait?”

The both reach for their devices simultaneously, Liam waking up his laptop and Niall sliding open his phone. Niall gets to the image first and tilts it toward Liam so they can view it together.

Louis Tomlinson. _Self-Portrait_. 1826-1828(?) 25½” x 21¼”. Musée D’Orsay, Paris.

When Niall and Liam inspect the portrait with new eyes, they see what every academic has missed before, but now seems plain as day: Styles’ loose, natural brushstrokes, his trademark rich shadows, and his subtly impressionistic use of colour. They understand that the fingerprint stain of paint on the collar doesn’t signify anything having to do with money, or value, or politics. It has to do with love.

They look, and they are the first to see.

◊ ◊ ◊

“Come with me.” Louis buckles the last of the straps on the large case that holds his drafting tools, brushes, and paint. He’ll add it to the growing pile of boxes by the door of all the things he will take to Rome.

Harry just smiles and shakes his head. “Not this time.”

Louis shrugs, not surprised. They’ve had this discussion every day for the last week, and every time Harry says no.

“You don’t want to take my classes, do you? I’m a good teacher, or so I’ve been told. I guarantee you’d pass.”

“I’d have to pay extra for private tutoring, I’m sure,” Harry jokes, lifting an eyebrow.

Louis steps toward him and takes his hand. “I’d give it to you for free.”

“People are going to think you can’t afford clothes, you know, wearing this old stained one,” Harry says fondly, touching the soft ruffle of the Paris shirt. _Their_ shirt, as they call it now.

“Let them think what they wish. I know the truth.”

“And what’s that?” Harry asks, and the answer is written all over Louis’ face before he speaks. It’s love. It’s love when you want nothing more than the man to look at you. It’s love when you miss their body in the night because his thigh against yours lets you feel safe and at home and allows you to rest. It’s love when the man believes in you so strongly that you forget what it feels like not to believe. It’s love when you can feel the man kissing you, holding you, even when he has to let you go.

“It’s us,” Louis whispers against his cheek, then against his lips.

The memory brings a smile to Harry’s face. His paintbrush drags across the canvas, laying down the paint along with pieces of Harry’s heart there. It is within Louis’ whiskers, brown with a touch of umber; it is dabbed in ivory, shining in the tender blue of his eyes. It is laced through the dark spot of purple that stains the ruffle of their shirt, a beloved casualty of that night, and morning, and night again in Harry’s rented room.

It was Louis’ fault, they’d agreed, chuckling when they had discovered it. Harry had been wearing the shirt to keep warm while Louis painted his legs. But Harry kept moving them, teasing, until Louis did what Harry was silently bidding him to do, leave his canvas to come for a kiss. Louis’ thumb had been stained with lavender, and had brushed up against the collar as he’d held Harry’s neck, nuzzling in when Harry had pulled him down. Now the shirt is marked indelibly, a fingerprint to fix their day in colour.

The birds have stopped their early morning singing. Now the sounds outside the carriage house are working ones, the squeak of a wagon wheel, the snicker of horses, the clipped commands of the farmhands working the plow. The sun is getting stronger, and soon Harry will be able to blow out the lamps and work in the full light of day.

Although he surely should put this aside for now; he’s been working for hours already, and his mother will be needing help with the chores. But he doesn’t want to step away. When he’s painting Louis he can hear his voice. He can feel the smooth fold of the lapel over his heart, where Harry had placed his hand and felt it beat when they said goodbye. He can see all the colours that make up his hair, the tiny lines around his eyes, the freckle on his neck that shows just above his collar, the one that Harry likes to tickle and kiss.

Later Harry will take the quiet road to town. He will stop to say hello to Madame Faucheux and give her a few centimes for a chocolate biscuit. He will pet Monsieur Dumont’s dog and stop by the post to see if there is a letter for him.

Then he will climb down into the tunnels under the castle. He’ll walk a bit, then turn left and left past the old wine cellar, then right, and around the corner will be the place on the wall where Harry had carved some letters years ago with the edge of a sharp rock.

H.E.S. - L.W.T. 1821.

That was the day Louis let Harry lead them so he wouldn’t get lost in the dark. 

He’ll touch his hand over the engraved lines, and remember.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun working on this project because I got to spend days looking at old paintings. Here are some resources for you if you are interested in the art world of Paris in the early 1800s. 
> 
> Look [here](http://www.visual-arts-cork.com/history-of-art/neoclassical-painting.htm) for examples of Neoclassical painting, and [here](http://www.visual-arts-cork.com/history-of-art/romanticism.htm) to see examples of works in the Romantic style.
> 
> [Here](https://sites.google.com/a/plu.edu/paris-salon-exhibitions-1667-1880/salon-de-1824) is a page showing some of the actual works at the Paris Salon of 1824, including the works of Delaroche and Constable described in the story.
> 
> Here is an interesting article about the [history, politics and controversies of the Paris Salon](https://sites.google.com/a/plu.edu/paris-salon-exhibitions-1667-1880/home/postscript).
> 
> Come say hello on [tumblr](https://myownsparknow.tumblr.com/post/166038573608/myownsparknow-no-one-like-you-art-by)!


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